The District Manager (3 page)

Bowers is little more than a tiny community situated in what was once an enormous pecan plantation. The trees are huge. The main highway leading to this outpost abruptly splits, leaving the traveler with a choice between the town, if it can be called that, in one direction, and a small collection of shanty homes in the opposite direction. Exiting in favor of the residential, the traveler discovers that there is a definite class distinction. About a mile beyond the last visible shack, a detour emerges. This leads to Bowers’ well-to-do, and my destination. Four pillars rise in the distance, jutting upward above the giant trees. They are the smokestacks of a power plant, which can be seen for miles from any direction.

I pull into Mr. Reynolds’ driveway and he comes out to meet me. He dons a USMC cap and a beard. He is amicable and grateful for my visit.

“So, Mr. Reynolds…” I begin. We are still outside. His unfenced yard looks out over acres of gorgeous, wild bottomland.

“Please, call me Jules.” His accent nags at me.

“Jules, I’m just curious…are you from somewhere up North?”

“God no, man! I’m from New Orleans!”

“New Orleans? Well, sir, I apologize for my mistake. I’ve lived down here all my life. I should know the difference between…”

“…between a Yankee and a Coon Ass?” He light-heartedly interrupts.

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t sweat it, Mason. You don’t mind if I call you Mason, do you? ‘Mason Dixon,’ hell of a catchy name by the way—love it!”

“Mason is fine.”

“Good, let me show you the arena.”

It’s nearing twilight as we make our way toward the rodeo arena. Though not far from his house, the arena is only accessible through a dense wood behind his property. The sun is nearly set and the grass is high. Jules turns on his flashlight. We cautiously make our way, conscious of the possibility of poisonous snakes. The creatures of the night are having a hell of a concert.

The arena is small: I’d say not more than forty yards by thirty, including the rising bleachers. A single entry gate is heavily locked. The bottom bleachers are obscured by a fence. Wild, waist-high weeds line the circumference. But the top bleachers are slated, so you can see through them. Jules signals me towards the nearby thicket.

“I’ve got a ladder hidden over here,” he says, pointing.

“Are you sure it’s safe to leave something like this out here? Like this?”

“I’m not going to haul the thing back and forth through these woods. It’ll be okay,” he answers. He’s breathing heavily.

We each grab our end of the ladder. With some difficulty, we heave it up in an attempt at leaning it against the rail that guards the top bleacher. All this activity has awakened the sleeping dogs.

“How tall is this ladder?” I ask, wiping the perspiration from my eyes.

“Forty-foot.” There’s little breath behind his answer.

“No wonder it’s so heavy.” The metal ladder makes a hard clank as it hits the metal rail.

“Let’s get on up,” he orders.

We survey the monstrosity of this place, aided by his high beam flashlight. The pictures were bad enough, but this…this is flesh and blood. The whole arena smells of shit. The pit bulls, some two dozen of them, have left their pathetic dwellings and are on alert. But not all. Several have not moved since we arrived and I fear they are dead.

“Have you noticed any changes?”

“No. Not since I’ve been aware of this.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Oh, a week ago, last Thursday—over a week now, I guess.”

“In that time you’ve noticed no activity?”

“Someone has to come here at some point. They are fed regularly. This is the third time I’ve been up here and there is always food in the bowls. But I haven’t actually seen anyone. Of course I have to work too, you know.”

“I got the impression you were retired.”

“I am, from the Marine Corps. But my wife got sick last year and my pension isn’t enough. I do consulting work on the side.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your wife. And I thank you for your service.”

“Oh, she’s doing better—Lymphoma. It’s in remission—experimental drugs. No cure though.”

“So no one you’ve contacted, with the exception of me, has found this even a little disturbing?” I ask sarcastically.

“Oh, they find it disturbing. But everyone says there is nothing they can do, because…”

“Because they have shelter, are on chains, and have adequate food,” I rudely complete his thought.

“Because they have shelter, are on chains, and have adequate food. You are correct, sir.”

“My God, it’s obvious they’re being fought!” I state emphatically. Now, something dawns on me, “Wait a minute, the other day, when I was driving to work, I saw numerous dead dogs lying in ditches, here and there. I couldn’t say for sure, but come to think of it…they could’ve been pit bulls.”

“Well, there you go, Mason.”

“We should inform all parties of this fact. I’ve seen it with my own eyes!”

“What does that prove? No, it won’t change their position, but regarding what you said before your epiphany, and then confirmed by it, yes, they
are
fighting them, possibly breeding them. If you’ll observe, as far as I can tell these are all females.” He shines his light on the mass of hanging teats.

“The question is who are,
‘they?’”

“Yes, that is the question.”

“Another question is, ‘who owns this property?”’

“I was going to look into that this week.”

“Amazing. No one can do anything. No one sees anything. Are the cops even interested?”

“Sure. There’s even a sheriff ’s deputy who lives up the road.”

“What does he say?”

“Oh, how terrible it is…”

“But nothing can be done?”

“No, nothing, nothing can be done. That’s right, Mason.”

I deal with a lot of bullshit problems. So many that the magnitude of any issue I have before me can diminish itself pretty quickly; overshadowed by the next fucked up situation. And…I have a pretty fucked up situation I have to deal with this week.

Wednesday, an old musician friend of mine is getting out of prison. He had been accused and convicted of intent to sell a controlled substance. It was bullshit. He actually was in possession of less than an ounce. But Keith had had a few other lesser charges, and that, combined with the fact that he was poor and something of an insolent smart ass, the judge sentenced him to three years. During the sting, the cops threw him to the ground and kicked him in his lower back, so as to keep him on the ground. This, in-and-of-itself, may not have caused lasting harm to the man. But given the fact that he has a congenital birth defect in his lumbar spine, the jack boot exacerbated an already deteriorating condition. It didn’t help that the bastards in the McConnell Unit refused him a simple orthopedic pillow. Luckily, with the cooperation of the district office where the prison sits, I was able to negotiate some basic care. But it’s apparently too late. Keith is now in a wheelchair.

State prisons are a crime. Underfunded and run by questionable creatures themselves, they are at best a petri dish of potential life-long, expensive health problems; at worst, a recruiting center for drug cartels and gangs.

The criminal justice system is never wrong. The Corrections Committee in the state legislature is apparently powerless. All they ever say is, “There’s nothing we can do.”

State prisons are a death sentence one way or another.

So I get a call from Jules as I’m driving down to Bellville.

“Mason, I’ve been looking into the ownership of that property.”

“And…?”

“It’s interesting, when I went down to the appraisal district they were really rude.”

“Big surprise, but you need to go to the county courthouse.”

“Yes, I figured that one out. But anyway, the Chief Appraiser came out and confronted me, asking me why I was inquiring about the land.”

“Yeah, that woman, she’s a liar and a cheat. That place blatantly violates the law and no one will do anything about it.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“Yeah right!” I confirm with a chuckle. “So what happened?”

“I went to the courthouse and I got the information, but it reveals very little.”

“Oh?”

“It’s in a company’s name: Bowers Power, Inc.”

“That’s catchy. Sounds like it has something to do with that power plant down there.”

“That’s what I was wondering, so I called the plant.”

“You called the plant? You love to entangle yourself in the web of bureaucracy, don’t you?”

“Ha, ha. Maybe so, Mason, maybe so.”

“And…?

“Oh, nothing yet. Left a message with some secretary. She was very nice, I must say. Had no idea what I was talking about.”

“Big surprise. The truth is, Jules, whoever this company is, they probably know nothing about this. That arena is so isolated that I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s being used unlawfully by someone who thinks they can just get away with it. If that’s the case, it’s worked so far.”

“Perhaps, but if someone were to bring it to their attention…”

“They might remove the dogs.”

“That’s right, Mason, they might remove the dogs.”

“I understand.”

“What troubles me is that no one who I have contacted in local government has researched this. I mean, regarding who owns this property.”

“I’m not surprised. That requires work, Jules. Look, the reality here is, this isn’t drugs, there’s nothing to be seized in this particular case that benefits the police or prosecutors. Dogs? They don’t care about a bunch of mutts. No benefit. They’ll just have to pay to put them down or have them sheltered!”

“You are cynical, sir. I hope that you are not right about that.”

“I hope not either, Jules. I hope not either.”

I arrive in Bellville, which is south of San Antonio, after a few drab hours. I’ve never had to pick up a released prisoner before and don’t know what to expect. Everyone is curt, if not hostile. I sign some papers, they give me several prescription bottles full of meds. I wait for several hours.

Doors clang with metallic urgency. At last a haggard figure is rolled out by one of the guards. The red hair is going gray and the face looks like an old baseball glove. The only thing I really recognize is the John Lennon-style rims of his cracked glasses.

“Keith, God bless you, man!” I declare, genuinely glad to see him. But his appearance ignites my spleen. “What, they couldn’t at least get you some new glasses?” I ask verbosely, looking around the room at the stagnant prison employees. “Why didn’t you put this in your letters?”

“Save it, Mason,” Keith demands, under his breath.

But I’m not finished. “What the hell am I paying taxes for anyway?” I ask angrily. The guards have turned and are looking at me hungrily, like wolves on a hill surveying an outcast. “I guess to pay your salary!” I say, looking right into the eyes of some bitch with a badge.

“Get me out of here, Mason. Please, let’s go,” Keith pleads. There’s a genuine fear in his voice.

“Don’t worry, bro, they can’t hurt you anymore.” And with that comment, the guards start laughing as they look at each other.